The Night Of The Special Delivery
by Gunney
Summary: Another One-Shot that wouldn't leave me alone. Arte and Jim are ordered to deliver a wagon of goods.


Arte took a final turn around the wagon, his hand resting on each wagon wheel as he looked at the spokes, the hub and the axles; checking for stress fractures, making sure the hubs were well oiled and secure, the metal braces well fitted to the wheels etc.

He'd already looked over the team of four horses that he would be driving that morning and this was his second or third time around the wagon but he had been waiting beside it for an hour and with express instructions not to look inside the wagon at its cargo, there was little else for him to do. He'd given up on whistling and twiddling his thumbs fairly early on.

Dressed in what he always thought of as his 'trouble clothes', a light brown corduroy jacket, brown pants, yellow shirt and a new brown, jean wool vest he'd only recently purchased, Arte paced once more around the wagon before he heard the familiar triplet of hooves crossing the packed dirt of the alley. A few seconds later the familiar black stallion nosed its way around the corner and Arte moved his hand away from the grip of the gun in his holster.

"Any last-minute instructions?" He called to his partner, who pushed his lips together and shook his head.

"Get the cargo to Fort Columbus as soon as possible. Don't let it get wet. Don't open the crates."

Arte leaned against the tail gate and shook his head, admittedly frustrated by the blanket of secrecy thrown over this assignment. Unlike some, this one hadn't come directly from the president but through an old army friend of his, a Brigadier General Kekule. Neither West nor Gordon had heard of the man before but a coded message to Washington had confirmed his identity and the word had come down. Whatever General Kekule needed, they were to comply.

"Anything about not hitting bumps along the way for fear that the cargo will explode?" Arte asked, pointedly as he walked to the driver's seat of the wagon, collecting the reins. His own horse, a brown mare this time around, stood tied to a hitching rail around the corner. She would travel with them tied to Jim's saddle horn.

Arte was determined that he wouldn't be driving the wagon for the entire week, or five days at best possible speed, that it would take to get to the fort, but any attempts at broaching the subject with Jim so far had ended with West refusing to even look at the wagon, and then walking away.

As he climbed into the seat, Arte heard Jim laugh and watched as the blue suited man and the black horse skipped ahead of the wagon and rounded the corner to collect the mare. Arte clicked his tongue to the team and tapped the heavy reins over their shoulders and the animals responded readily, digging hooves into the ground and pulling the wagon forward.

Because of the instructions they had been forced to rent a small covered wagon, the canvas treated to be rain proof with kerosene and wax. Further when they had picked up the mysterious crates at the train station, the boxes had already been wrapped in tar covered canvas.

The precautions against letting the cargo get at all damp, seemed almost overbearing. Yet they hadn't been told that the cargo was in any way dangerous.

The only thing that Arte knew of that could react explosively or dangerously when in contact with water was sulphur. If it were stored in sealed bottles, Arte would of course have no way of knowing, but surely anything glass would have been marked fragile. Sulphur stored in the open would have stunk to high heaven.

By the time he and James West left the small Kansas town, heading into the spring green plains of the country side, Arte had ruled out the noxious chemical and was thinking now about the supplies a fort usually required.

"Do you think it's guns?" He shouted ahead and Jim reigned his horse back, dropping even with the wagon.

"Guns can get wet, Arte."

"It isn't sulphur...I'm sure it isn't. Why would anyone at Fort Columbus want it? And it isn't gunpowder. Even if gunpowder gets wet all that needs happen is that it dry again."

The silence grew between them and considering it a sign of the end of the conversation Jim rode ahead once more.

With nothing but the mystery in the wagon to think about, Arte settled in starting a list in his head.

* * *

"I've thought about dynamite, nitro glycerin, that doomsday formula Dr. Crane invented..."

Jim smirked at his partner over the flames of their dinner fire but said nothing.

Arte shook his head, taking a distracted sip of his coffee. "It can't be an explosive."

Jim chuckled causing his partner to look up at him. "This is driving you nuts, isn't it, Arte?"

"Don't tell me you're not curious?" Arte demanded, furrowing his brow.

Jim grinned and shook his head.

"Maybe that's because you're riding thirty feet ahead of the stuff..."

"I doubt it's dangerous..." Jim said, shifting on the blanket and saddle that he lay against. Something had been digging into his left thigh for the past hour and he was getting tired of the discomfort.

"Perhaps to the layman or the untrained eye, but if it's this important to General Kekule, _and_ time sensitive, it has to pose a threat somewhere along the line."

"If we get it wet..." Jim said then slid to one side and lifted the blanket he was sitting on to dig out the rock that had been bruising him. He tossed it onto the fire and settled back again.

"Or maybe getting it wet makes it...ineffective. I wonder if it's some kind of medicine, or pesticide. Do you suppose? Have there been any pandemics or-" Arte stopped himself, noted the blank look coming from his partner and nodded. "I'll let it go."

"If it worries you that much I'll drive the wagon tomorrow."

* * *

The next morning Jim was as good as his word, and despite the uncomfortable look on his face for the first four hours of the day, he willingly drove the wagon. The plains were alive with the fruitfulness of spring, and the hay fields had already sprung up to near maturity as a result of the early rains. It wouldn't be long before the first crop was cut, laid out to dry, then stored in the barns and hay beds of the many farms they passed.

There was very little activity on the road, of course, likely the result of it being planting season.

The thick rain clouds that rolled in toward the afternoon were only a harbinger of more life-giving water and with the canvas on the wagon securely closed, both men willingly withstood the deluge that followed them well into the evening hours, taking a cold supper and staking their horses beneath the shelter of a tree before they themselves slept under the relative dry of the wagon bed nearby.

The storm was gentle enough that night, but on going, and Arte found himself unable to drift off.

"Jim..."

"Mmph"

"What if it's some sort of microscopic plant life?"

"What?"

Arte pushed himself up by his elbows, warming to the topic. "A few months ago I read a study on organisms that are living, but so small that they can't been seen by the naked eye. Like...germs, and those things that fester a wound, but plants. And these tiny plants make up the green algae that we see on stagnate lakes. But the theory-"

"Arte..."

"It really is fascinating, Jim, listen. The theory is that these organisms can remain dormant for long periods of time when conditions are not appropriate for them to thrive. Just as animals adapt to survive a harsh winter or dry summer, these plants-unable to shelter themselves, simply...shut down. What if getting them wet...would activate them, you know, too soon?"

There was a sigh and a groan from his partner and Arte fell silent, working through the idea in his head until a brilliant flash of lightning, very near by, heralded a coming, magnificent crash of thunder.

The horses, already spooked by the storm, became panicked at the loud clap of sound and both West and Gordon scrambled out of their blankets to check on them.

Surprisingly the rain was dwindling, and the thunder and lightning, accompanied only by the wind, seemed to be sticking to the eastern corner of the horizon. The bolt that had struck nearby, was probably the last of its kind for the night, yet the horses weren't settling.

Knowing that a storm wasn't the only thing to panic a horse both men grabbed their guns before approaching the small corral from either side, circling the rope exterior and the tree quietly before they turned their attentions to the animals themselves.

"Well...that's disappointing." Jim remarked from the other side of the large trunk and Arte circled it then blinked at the body lying on the ground.

One of the horses that they had hired to pull the wagon was sprawled on its side, dead, Arte discovered after he knelt to place a hand over the animal's nostrils.

"What happened to it?"

Jim moved closer to the animal's body, running his hands along its head, shoulders and back. "The lightning maybe..." There were no holes or wounds on the animal, but a few streaks of white that might have been burns.

There was no other explanation.

While Arte searched the wagon for something that they could use to bury the animal, Jim moved the other horses out from under the tree and ground hitched them near the wagon.

"There's nothing, Jim."

"No shovel?"

"That's standard equipment in a hearse, not a covered wagon."

"Well what do we do?"

"You could ride to a nearby farm and ask for one of their shovels..."

"It has to be three a.m. Arte, they're going to wonder who died, and why we're so anxious to bury them."

"Do you propose that we take the dead horse with us?"

Both men looked at the wagon. The three vitally important crates were big, but didn't really take up most of the room in the bed. Even if they shoved them into one corner they wouldn't be able to fit the body of the horse in as well.

"Nevermind.." Arte said finally.

"We'll have to leave it here." Jim said.

With sleep a forgone conclusion, and the animals still too riled to get much more rest out of the night, Jim and Arte hitched two of the remaining three hired animals to the wagon. With Arte driving slowly and Jim taking up the rear, leading Arte's mare, and the extra draft animal, they headed down the road.

Neither man liked the idea of leaving the unfortunate dead horse behind, but the mysterious cargo, and its time sensitive nature, forced them onward.

* * *

"These horses are doing fine, Jim." Arte called. It was afternoon, the sun was warmer than usual and Arte had removed his jacket, letting his still somewhat damp shirt, and new wool vest, dry in the spring breeze.

"What?" Jim called before he slowed his black to draw even with the wagon.

"Our cargo...can't be that heavy, these two appear to be doing fine with it."

"That's good, Arte."

"I've been thinking, if whatever is in those crates is light weight, important and can't get wet...could it be some sort of metal. Something that rusts easily. What if it were some light weight alloy, highly sensitive to moisture? What if we're carrying a top-secret new invention out to Fort Columbus..."

Jim laughed shaking his head. "Fort Columbus is a backwater, Arte. The only combat the troops there have ever seen is against themselves in training exercises. There haven't been battles or uprising in that area since the 1830s."

"Doesn't that sort of prove my point? What better place to bring the newest great discovery of our time than to an unassuming, ill-needed backwater fort in the middle of the plains?"

Jim shook his head, "I guess that's a little better than your living dead plant idea..."

"I _knew _you were awake."

"Hey, Arte..."

Arte looked up to find Jim squinting at their back trail.

"What is it, Jim?"

A second later a distant shot rang out, causing Jim to jump in surprise then duck reflexively. "Looks like we got company. Get that wagon out of here."

With a loud 'hyah' Arte slapped the reins hard against the backs of the horses and he, the wagon, and the cargo jumped forward, suddenly picking up speed.

Jim pulled his rifle from the scabbard, letting loose the reins of the two horses he'd been trailing, before he stood in the saddle, aimed at the dust and the horses approaching to their rear and responded to the first shot with one of his own. He pointed the muzzle over the rider's heads reluctant to shoot for effect if he didn't know for sure what or who it was he might be killing.

This did little to dissuade the five horsemen he could make out, charging still towards them. With a shout of his own Jim got his black moving, heading in the direction Arte had taken. Arte's mare, trained by Jim himself, hesitated a moment then followed the black. The draft animal stayed where it was, instantly lowering its head to graze.

Jim didn't have time to catch it, that fact emphasized by the tug of a bullet passing through the sleeve of his coat, and the sound of more gunshots directed toward him.

Already Arte had pulled the wagon off the road and down an ill-used country lane that appeared through the tall spring grasses. The recent rain meant there would be little in the way of a dust trail and his partner stood a decent chance if Jim stayed on the main road and acted as a decoy.

West charged past the turn off without hesitation and threw a wild gun shot over his shoulders to encourage the five horsemen to follow him. As it turned out, they didn't need the encouragement. They were coming on faster than Jim expected, probably the benefit of being on fresh horses instead of one that had been ridden since 4 a.m.

His black charged on gamely though, and they made it to a cross roads fifty yards ahead where Jim turned his horse down the road leading to the left, spotting and heading for a barn just off the road side a hundred yards distant. He'd just rounded a corner of the building when a bullet hit the siding, sending splinters like hot coals into his face.

Jim jerked, winced, but kept in his saddle and circled behind the barn, shooting out into the open on the other side and riding straight through the group of startled riders. Ducking low against the back of the horse, he charged back the way he had come, reaching the cross roads and taking the road to the north this time.

He'd gained some ground, but there wasn't time to stop. The startling burn of the splinters had caused him to reflexively close his eyes and he found he was reluctant to open the right one again. He could feel the tiny cuts on his cheek bone, but it felt like something more substantial was lodged just above his right eye lid. Looking a little like stunned pirate, Jim had to make do, trying not to lean too far to the right, in compensation for the change in his vision.

West knew that he wasn't likely to run out of road any time soon, but his horse would only last so long before he ran the risk of injuring the animal, or worse.

Just as the gun shots and angry voices of the riders rounded the corner at the cross roads Jim heard a shrill whistle behind him and held on for dear life as his horse, so well-trained he didn't stop to consider that his own rider was riding him, attempted to buck West out of the saddle in response to the oral command.

Behind him West could hear the pursuing riders responding to the whistle as well, shouting in surprise and redirecting their gun fire in the opposite direction.

"Blackjack!" Jim shouted, nearly unseated twice before the animal recognized his voice and stood pawing at the ground and tossing its head, agitated. "Sorry, boy. You did good, though." Jim calmed the animal, then reached a careful hand to his cheek, feeling around his eye until his fingertips brushed the piece of wood lodged into the skin just under his eyebrow. Removing it would probably start a cascade of blood that would serve only to blind him, Jim thought, so he left it there, experimentally opening his eye again before he turned his horse and gave chase.

The whistler, had more than likely been Artemus. The reason, to be a decoy to Jim's decoy. He could see the wagon far ahead, the canvas top bouncing crazily as Arte worked the horses hard and fast, leading the highwaymen away.

Jim kicked Blackjack into motion, now chasing the five horseman down.

They made a wild sort of parade for about half a mile before Arte seemed to lose control of the wagon. The horses broke free just as the wagon wheels turned and the vehicle itself flipped, trying to turn on its back, but stopped by the flexible willow braces that held the arch shape of the canvas.

Jim couldn't see Arte but took advantage of the stalled riders and shot above their heads again with the rifle, shouting that they should raise their hands.

One of the men responded by throwing his gun away. The others turned with murderous intent in their eyes and Jim shot the first one who raised his gun, clean through the side.

He thought he heard an odd echo of his shot, then saw another of the still armed men lean forward over his horse's neck, then slide out of the saddle.

The remaining two threw their guns down and raised their hands.

"Now get down off your horses and lay on your bellies." A voice shouted from behind the wagon and Jim couldn't help but grin.

"You alright, Arte?"

"Yep." The voice said after a moment, then Arte, limping slightly, walked around the end of the overturned wagon bed, pointing his gun at the five men now lying on the ground. He studied his partner for a moment then said, "Something happened to your face, Jim."

West stepped down from Blackjack's saddle, patting the horse on his neck in thanks before he checked each of the would-be highwaymen for other weapons. "Ricochet, splinters."

Arte nodded, _accidentally_ stepping on the fingers of a man who had been trying to get to a hideaway knife, before he disarmed the criminal and tossed the knife to the side of the road. "Kinda improves it a little."

Jim frowned, wincing when the crinkling of his brow upset the splinter still lodged there. He gave a sarcastic laugh.

"You're payin' for that one, Arte." He promised, going to the wagon to look at the damage.

His partner laughed victoriously before he looked to the youngest of the gang, who was staring at West and Gordon wide-eyed.

"This should teach you not to ascribe to a life of crime, sonny." Arte admonished, before he made sure the youngster too was unarmed.

"Arte, where's the cargo?"

"I unloaded it."

"That was fast."

"It weighed next to nothing, Jim." Arte assured him.

Jim touched the back of his hand to his cheek, making a face at the blood that came away. "Looks like you boys tried to rob an empty wagon."

* * *

That night Jim and Arte spent the evening in the somewhat comfortable parlor of a rural doctor. The towns were small along the country road, primarily because they hadn't yet been reached by any railroad. As a result, after Jim and Arte had righted and reloaded the wagon, with both the cargo and their bound prisoners, it took them several hours to find a town big enough to have a sheriff.

By the time they dropped off the five men, explained how they had come across them and had been told where to locate the doctor's house, Jim's eye was red and swollen and he was no longer in the mood to hear Arte's pontificating concerning their delivery.

Their directions included the instructions, 'look for the old man sitting on his porch.' The 'old man' turned out to be the doctor himself, and both secret service agents were surprised to see him literally seated on the wood paneling of the porch and not in a chair.

The medical man seemed keenly interested in the five highwaymen and both agents soon learned that they had been attacked by and consequently arrested a group called the Kingsmen. Four brothers and a cousin that had been harassing wagons on that highway for almost six months. Because the attacks covered so much ground, and there were so few available lawmen in the area, their lawless behavior had gone all but unchecked.

As far as the small towns were concerned, Jim and Arte were now heroes. The extraction that the doctor did for James, and the wrap that the doctor's grateful daughter put around Arte's sprained ankle, were gratis.

Despite a welcome invitation, and since the wagon and the horses seemed none the worse for wear, both agents decided to hit the road once again come morning. They woke late, but to a bright, cool spring morning. Sore but steadfast, they headed out again, bound for Fort Columbus.

* * *

"Think of it, Jim. A new kind of saddle that weighs next to nothing, freeing the horse of at least twenty or thirty pounds, but still tough enough to withstand years of use."

"Arte, you're-"

"Or the same material used as shelter. Lighter than canvas, but sharing the same properties, so that it can be carried anywhere by anyone. No more cumbersome wagons just to carry yards of tentage."

"But it can't get wet." Jim interjected, snapping the words out with just a little irritation. The bouncing of his horse all morning had made his face hurt...and unwilling to admit those words to his partner, Jim had instead altruistically offered to drive the wagon. Arte had been more than happy to let him, but insisted on staying with his partner.

Jim normally didn't mind the older man's company...normally.

"It can't get wet..._yet_."

"You're making things up now, Arte." Jim snarled, then winced as the wagon hit a rut, wobbling dangerously. The right front wheel had been creaking since after noon, probably because of the stress of the rough ride the afternoon before. Each rut or stone seemed to make it worse, but Jim was reluctant to stop until they had to. Both to make up for lost time and to prevent them from being stranded in the middle of nowhere.

Jim realized his partner was silent a second later and glanced over to see Arte facing forward, his back rigid. With a sigh Jim snapped the reigns, urging the horses to move a little faster, and let the quiet draw a gap between them until he was calm enough to apologize, and actually mean it.

"I'm sorry, Arte. I'm just tired, that's all."

"No...Jim, I should've dropped it days ago. We'll find out what's in those crates soon enough. I'm just...curious, that's all."

They rode together in silence, both men noting the darkening clouds ahead. Just about every late afternoon had been filled with a thunder-storm since they started their journey, and this one was right on time.

"Why are you so damn curious, anyway?" Jim asked finally.

Arte glanced to his partner then shrugged. "My nature, I guess."

After a moment Jim smirked and laughed, and started to say something, then realized what he was planning on saying and changed his mind.

Apparently Arte had been watching him because a minute later the older man said, "What?"

"I was...thinking about Christmas. Little Artemus Gordon pestering his mother endlessly about what was in all the packages."

Arte smiled softly.

"But then I remembered that your mother died when you were very young."

"Well...she passed away when I was ten, but we had a few Christmases before that. And there was never much of a mystery about the packages."

"Yeah?"

"Socks and books, every year."

Jim grinned silently, thinking that that explained a great deal about his partner.

Arte smirked then asked, "What about you?"

Leaning back against the wagon seat Jim closed his right eye, the injury making it tiresome to keep it open for long periods of time. "I had a lot of cousins growing up, and everybody showed up around Christmas time so there were usually mounds of wrapped toys around the tree by Christmas Eve. It was a greater challenge finding one with your name on it, than waiting to see what it was."

"What did you usually get?"

"Socks." Both men laughed, then Jim said, "One year I got a wood carving set. That was the year my Dad died. He was going to teach me how to use them, but he fell through the ice of the pond that spring."

"How old were you?"

"Fifteen."

Ahead the skies were almost black, the clouds rolling with thunder distantly, the occasional flash of lightning lighting the sheets of rain coming down.

"I get the feeling it would be unwise to try driving through that..." Arte muttered.

"We haven't passed any barns or structures for almost three miles," Jim said. "How do you feel about riding ahead?"

"I'll go a mile, if I don't see anything I'll turn back." Arte said, adrenaline and a small amount of concern coloring his voice.

Jim nodded ascent to this partner then kicked up the horses a little faster as Arte took off down the road at a gallop.

Arte had gone only half a mile before he felt the cold blast from the weather front clearing the humidity and warmth from the air in less than a second. Not a good sign, he thought, the blast followed by wind that tugged harshly at his clothing. Another quarter of a mile and he was ducking his head to avoid the driving rain spitting at him. It wasn't a torrent yet, but ahead a mile or so it would be. The storm was violent, but hopefully fast-moving.

There were no barns in sight, and getting the wagon, at its slow, lumbering gate, even this far would be nearly impossible. Before even completing the first mile he turned his fidgeting mare and started back. Minutes later he was pelted in the back by a half-dozen rocks...no...hail, he realized, seeing the coin sized chunks of ice start to splatter against the dirt road.

The wind roared behind him as he clung hard to the mare and kicked her in the sides. He hated doing it but he got the feeling he was being chased by something bigger, meaner, and far more deadly than the wind and lightning crashing above. He had just spotted the wagon ahead when he noticed a lone wooden door cut into the rolling hillside off the road, to his right. He would never have seen it going the other direction but the sod house was plain as day from there. Arte waved his arm frantically toward the structure, holding his hat down with his other hand, as the wind, rain and hail caught up with him.

Knowing that Jim would follow his lead, even if he couldn't see the sod house yet, Arte charged off the road and down the lane that lead to the structure embedded in the hill. He flew out of the saddle even as he practically drove his mare into the hillside, banging harshly on the door. When there was no answer he tested the knob, found it unlocked and charged into the darkened shelter.

No one was home, and they probably hadn't been home for years. Cobwebs hung everywhere, the walls bulging inward in some places. But there was room enough for he and his partner. If there was time they could get the cargo inside and the horses too.

Leading his mare to a corner of the structure he tripped over a chair and stool, kicking them out of the way in his haste. By the time he got back outside the wagon was already bumping down the lane. Part of the canvas cover had ripped away and was flapping in the breeze, and Blackjack, tied to the back of the wagon, was wide-eyed, snorting and fighting the reins.

The hail had stopped, but the wind was just as strong, driving the rain into their faces and instantly soaking them. While Jim struggled to loose the hired horses from their harnesses as quickly as possible Arte ran to the back of the wagon to grab Blackjack.

Even before the reins were loose however the animal reared. Panicked, the whites of his eyes glaring against the black of his face, the stallion struck his hooves against the rear gate of the wagon. Arte didn't have time to move his arm out of the way and was caught on the upswing, the corner of a hoof striking his left arm, between his hand and his elbow.

Pain flashed all the way to his shoulder, numbing his hand and eliciting a cry that drew his partner's attention.

With a snap Blackjack's struggles broke the reins tying him to the tailgate and he tore down the lane, away from the soddy and the storm.

Arte clung to the back of the wagon, pale and bending over his left arm, working on remembering how to breathe.

"Is it broken?" Jim shouted at him. He'd finally managed to get the last of the draft horses into the sod house when he heard Blackjack scream and Arte's cry of pain. He'd feared the worst until he saw his partner still standing, if hunched and clearly in agony.

"I don't know..." Arte shouted back, breathing through gritted teeth. He grabbed at the side of the wagon as some of the pain ebbed, trying to straighten. "...we have to get the crates inside."

Jim clenched his teeth angrily, wanting to argue the point with his partner but knowing that they had a responsibility, to the General and the Fort, to do everything in their power to see that the boxes got where they were supposed to go. He could have cared less about the damned boxes, and was trying not to think about Blackjack, or the damage that the animal had done to Arte's arm.

"Get inside." Jim said finally, seeing the argument start in Arte's eyes, then die with another wave of pain. His partner nodded then turned, bracing his injured arm as he stumbled to the door of the sod house.

Jim worked the now bent and warped pin loose of the tailgate then dragged the first box out and followed his partner quickly. Arte had been right. The boxes couldn't have weighed more than twenty pounds each.

By the time Jim got all three crates inside the hail had begun to fall again and was drumming loudly against the door to the sod house. Arte had already retrieved the matches from his saddle bags and was working on setting a fire in the mud and stone fireplace. Against the low flicker of the flames licking at the kindling he looked white as a sheet, and Jim could see that he was trembling.

There was a lantern sitting on the mantle of the fireplace and Jim grabbed it, noted the small amount of kerosene still sloshing in the basin, and took one of the matches that Arte had spilled on the hearth, lighting the wick. Just as he set the lantern down, a loud crash sounded just outside the walls of the sod house that caused both men to jump and elicited grunts from the horses.

"Probably the wagon..." Jim offered, then knelt by his partner and helped him take his jacket off.

Arte's hand was already beginning to swell and Jim took out his knife, cutting the sleeve of the yellow shirt away entirely from the shoulder to the cuff. The bruise was deep and ugly.

"Can you move your fingers?"

Arte gritted his teeth but made the effort, his swelling appendages moving, but not very far.

Sticking his knife between his teeth, Jim used both hands to feel along Arte's arm, avoiding putting any pressure on the growing bruise, but checking both of the bones in the forearm.

Arte did his best to keep quiet, but couldn't help drawing back from his partner's hands every time a stray finger or thumb pressed to hard. He'd backed up almost a foot before Jim finished.

"Numbness is goin' away." Arte told him, not sure if it was a good sign or not, but the exploration Jim had done seemed to encourage circulation.

"Yeah...that's a good thing, Pal." Jim nodded then looked around the room. After a moment of thought he rose and approached Arte's mare, pulling the saddle free. The action reminded him once more that Blackjack was somewhere out in the storm and he felt a pang of regret, even as he was grateful that he hadn't been riding the animal. As a result his saddle had been stored in the wagon and it, and the saddle blanket, were dry.

Setting Arte's damp saddle on the floor near the fire-place, Jim grabbed for a small three-legged stool next. He set that by the saddle and grunted, pleased that it was slightly lower in height than the saddle was. He covered both with Arte's wet saddle blanket then set his own saddle at a ninety degree angle to Arte's and helped his partner down to the floor.

As he helped the injured man get situated he explained the odd construction. "If we keep your arm elevated that swelling should go down. I don't think your arm is broken but I won't be able to tell for sure until-"

"Until it looks less like sausage?" Arte asked, having stared at the discolored limb for the past twenty minutes, it was the best description he could think of.

Jim laughed a little. It was a frighteningly accurate description, but a good sign. He and Arte worked together to find a position that would allow his arm to rest higher than his heart, and avoid putting unnecessary pressure on the bruise.

By the time Arte was comfortable, the fire had taken solid hold in the fireplace and the hail had stopped falling outside. The storm dwindled to torrential rain and flashes of lightning every minute or so.

The pain in his arm now nothing more than a dull throb, Arte was able to think a little more clearly and suddenly realized why his partner was so quiet.

"Jim.."

"Yeah, Arte."

"I'm sorry about Blackjack."

West was quiet for a moment, feeding the fire a little more before he intended to take his lit lantern and explore the single room. "He's stubborn, Arte. He'll make it." He said finally, then stood and looked around their new, temporary home.

* * *

There wasn't much to the sod house. One door and one window set high to the right of the door. The rest of the structure had been built into the hillside with strong beams supporting the mud and grass that formed the roof.

At the beginning of its construction the roof had to have leaked frequently but the soddy was old enough now that the hillside had grown over it, putting enough hard packed soil between themselves and the rain to keep them dry.

There was very little furniture left in the room. Probably packed away when the inhabitants had left their home. A rope tacked across one side of the soddy might have once held a curtain cordoning off a bed chamber. Other than the stool supporting his partner's injured arm, a small table with a broken leg, a chair and a bucket, bent on one side and kicked into a corner, very little remained.

The wood Arte had used to build the fire had been stacked near the fireplace, but there wasn't very much of it and Jim set about breaking apart the table, setting the pieces near the hearth for later.

So focused on what he was doing, and on the noise from the storm outside, Jim didn't realize Arte had moved until he heard a pained gasp come from the corner of the room.

"Arte, what are you doin?" Jim muttered grumpily, tossing a broken table leg onto his pile of firewood.

"I'm thirsty.." Arte responded, yanking his canteen out from under the pile of supplies that Jim had tossed into a corner, before he carefully made his way back to the saddles.

"You couldn't have asked?"

"You were so enjoying violently destroying that table..."

The comment made Jim realize just how angry he had been a moment ago, when he was in fact _very_ violently splitting the table apart with carefully placed karate punches. He'd managed to work up a sweat in the process and one glance at his fists told him his knuckles would be red and mildly swollen in a few hours.

"When _I've_ been left in the dark it's my curiosity that gets me..." Arte observed, sighing after he'd taken a satisfying gulp from his canteen, his arm once again carefully laying against the saddle and stool. Jim noticed that his partner had also retrieved his own canteen and he went to sit next to Gordon, drinking. "When _you're _left in the dark...you get mad." Arte finished.

Jim swallowed, wiping the extra moisture from his lips. "What makes you say that?"

"Table in splinters." Arte said, poignantly. "And I've watched you solve mysteries for the better part of four years, Jim. When you can't answer the questions yourself, you get mad and make waves..."

Jim had always known that he had a boiling point, but unlike most men, he didn't reach it when faced with physical violence. Knowing as many ways as he did to kill a man, armed or otherwise, he couldn't allow himself to be angry when he was fighting. Irritated on occasion, yes, but never uncontrollably angry.

Jim's anger came when he was deprived of answers that he needed, answers that would save lives, or stop wars, or end suffering. He had begun to realize as much about himself, but hadn't realized that it was so clear to his partner.

"We've risked our lives twice for those damned crates, Arte. Now I want to know what's in them as bad as you do."

Both men were silent for a moment, staring at the boxes stacked unassuming in the corner.

"But we're not going to open them..." Arte said finally, almost as if it were a question.

With a sigh Jim shook his head. "No, we're not going to open them. Yet."

* * *

"Arte..."

"Mmph."

"Still awake?"

"Mm...mmph."

"What if we just took the canvas off?"

"...what?"

"All the moving around and shaking those crates have been doing...they might have busted open at some point and we wouldn't know because of the canvas."

"So take it off..." Arte said then tried to roll over, his back aching. The second he moved, his arm caught fire and he hissed painfully then tried rolling the other way. The minute the pressure was off his back he was asleep again.

Jim stared at the boxes for another ten minutes before he finally made the decision and took the lantern over to the smallest of the three.

* * *

"Paris, France."

Arte looked over his shoulder at the small box, once more wrapped in the tar covered canvas, a small corner visible under the taut white canvas cover they devised that morning. "It came from Paris!?"

"The small one anyway, the other two are from London."

Arte blinked feeling as if the revelation had both proven his theories, and completely wrecked them all at the same time.

"Paris!?" He said again, still trying to make the new information fit with the old.

Jim, who was breaking apart the last of the willow frame-work, and storing it under the protection of the white canvas they had stretched over the rim of the wagon bed, said. "That's all that was written on the box, Arte. No street, no business. From Paris, France to Fort Columbus, Kansas."

"Had the seals on the boxes been broken at all?"

"No."

"You don't suppose..."

"What...oh! Franconium? Nah..." Lifting the tail gate of the wagon into place Jim secured it before he moved to double-check the harnesses on the two remaining hired horses. "Washington would have said something..."

Arte did his best to believe it as he watched his partner check around the wagon one last time.

The night's storm had been powerful enough to knock down trees, flatten the tall grasses for miles and flood parts of the country lane, and the main road. Arte was certain they would come across damage to barns and houses once they reached them. Even if the storm hadn't turned into a cyclone, it had been strong enough to do the same damage. Neither man held out much hope for Blackjack.

Arte's arm had felt fragile as a china plate that morning when they placed it in a sling, but the swelling had gone down overnight. Both were fairly positive that nothing had been broken, but both bones in his forearm were probably bruised. The injury would not quickly fade from his memory.

Jim's face and eye appeared to be healing well enough, and both had spent much of the morning drying clothing and blankets by the fire, as well as insuring that they ate a hot meal.

It was in the middle of his bowl of boiled oat meal that Arte asked, "You don't suppose it's food do you?"

That comment had finally convinced Jim that they needed to look under the tar covered canvas, something he had eventually decided against the night before.

Unless they were carting snails and kippers, Arte was willing to drop the food hypothesis.

Both men chose to ride in the wagon, Arte not up to sitting a saddle, or handling the reins with one hand. Worried about the structure of their vehicle after the repeated beating it had taken in the past few days, Jim took it slow, every once in a while checking over his shoulder and whistling, hoping that against all the odds, Blackjack would respond.

They drove the wagon through the rest of the uneventful afternoon with no sign of Jim's black, finally stopping in the reasonably populated town of Heartswell, Kansas. The wheelwright and blacksmith were a welcome sight and while Jim took the wagon and horses to the two businesses that shared a stable, Arte went to the post and telegraph office, hoping to send a message to Fort Columbus.

Unsurprisingly he was told that the wires were down temporarily due to the storm, but the operator hoped they would be in business again by the end of the week.

Arte merely smiled, thanked the man then walked down the street to the only dry goods store in town. The sign above it declared that the fair-sized building was Dave's Dry Goods and Salon. Arte went inside and felt a small sigh of relief bubble unbidden from him. The store represented commerce, and commerce; civilization. Something that Arte never realized he missed until he went without it for a day or more.

"Well, sir. You must'a been caught in that storm't rolled through last night. Yes indeed."

Pushing his hat back on his head Arte gave the man behind the counter a tired smile and nodded. "Your little town seems to have fared well enough." He commented, already spotting a few supplies that he and Jim needed to replenish.

"Sure, sure." The man, who could only be Dave, responded, nodding.

There was a long moment of silence, in which neither party had anything to say. Arte moved to a corner of the store geared toward the interests of young children and smirked at the toys, candy, dolls and bric a brac, spilling from the shelves.

"You got young ones?" Dave asked.

"No." Arte responded, shaking his head as he reached out to shake the hand of a small rag doll. Something about her stitched eyes, red yarn mouth and spun wool hair captured him and after a moment he took the toy off the shelf and placed it on the counter in front of Dave, then hunted down the other supplies he and his partner would need.

"I got two myself, with one on the way. Due any day. Takin' a trip?" Dave asked, ringing up the flour, salt, jerky and beans that Arte had put on the counter.

It had to have been his time spent in the secret service, or perhaps the spy business that had consumed most of his service during the War Between the States, but Arte automatically evaded the question with another question, asking about the price of the cigars in a box just behind Dave's shoulder.

They were expensive, for cigars, and the interest pleased the store owner who prattled on about the time it had taken for the pricey cigars to make it all the way to Kansas from the east coast.

By the time he left the store Arte had bought four of the cigars, and had Dave pack the rest of the supplies into a spare crate, that would allow Arte to carry his purchases in one arm. The doll was carefully wrapped in two layers of wax paper, the wrapping and the crate, were free.

* * *

"I'm not going, Jim."

"You aren't leaving this town until you do."

"_We _are leaving, right now, and I am _not_ going."

"Arte..."

"Jim, my arm is fine. You said yourself, if it were broken I wouldn't be able to move my fingers and see...? Like magic. Shall we go?"

"I will break the other arm first, Arte, now get into that office."

Arte considered the look on his partner's face for a long time before he decided that Jim absolutely meant it and reached for the door knocker to the doctor's home. The minute he acquiesced Jim spun on a heel and started walking away.

"And where are _you_ going?"

"To find Blackjack!" Jim shouted without turning.

Arte didn't like it but also didn't appear to have much of a choice, especially when the door was answered by a charming woman about five years his junior. Dressed in mourning black, but with a bright and professional smile on her face she asked, "Yes?"

Arte smiled and snatched his hat from his head, smoothing his hair before he asked, "Forgive the intrusion but is the doctor in?"

The woman smiled guardedly and responded again, "Yes."

"Does he have time for a patient?"

The woman looked to the sling then back to his face and said, "She does, yes."

A brilliant grin overwhelmed Arte's face and he happily declared, "I may have broken my arm."

Unable to stop the short laugh the woman shook her head then stepped back, welcoming the injured man into her parlor.

* * *

They spent the night in Heartswell.

Arte treated the charming Doctor Kilbright to dinner at Dave's Dry Goods and Salon, it being the only restaurant within ten miles, and was then invited to stay in one of the sick rooms in the back of the lady Doctor's home, as there was no inn or boarding house to speak of in the town.

Arte thanked the lady, only accepting after he was sure that she understood that his partner would also need a place to rest, when and if he returned that evening from his hunt for the stray horse.

Arte's concern for his partner grew exponentially until the tired man finally knocked at the door of the Doctor's home, exhausted but a relieved note to his voice.

"You found him?" Arte asked.

Jim nodded. "He ran five miles before he slowed and a farmer spotted him, took him in over night. The storm didn't hit there as bad as it did at the soddy. Not a scratch on that da- darned beast." Jim said, noticing the lady still standing in the parlor, unintroduced.

"Forgive me, James West this is Doctor Mrs. Jacqueline Kilbright. Jackie, this is my partner and friend, Jim West."

"Pleasure to meet you Mr. West. I've managed to hear quite a bit about you in the past two hours. You've an incredibly loyal partner in Mr. Gordon."

Jim smirked tiredly at his partner, clapping him on the shoulder lightly before he pointed at the now wrapped injury he had resting in the sling. "Broken?"

Arte shook his head, smiling softly, now allowing himself to feel the tiredness he'd been ignoring with Jim still out on the road. "We've got rooms and you've got dinner waiting for you, James my boy."

Jim sighed and smiled, following the graceful sweep of the doctor's hand, easily finding the kitchen. "Thanks, Arte. Doctor Kilbright."

As Jim left the room a curious smile came to Jackie's lips and she said, "Arte?"

"A nickname..."

"How do you spell that...?"

Arte opened his mouth, then smiled and said, "You may spell it however you like, my dear."

* * *

A day and a half later Fort Columbus loomed on the horizon. The wagon had seen better days but the wheelwright in Heartswell had done wonders with the wobbling axle and it drove as solidly as it ever had.

Neither agent had seen the point in repairing the willow arches or hiring two additional horses, and they had left the Kansas town much the same as they had entered it.

The following day of travel had been easy, the storms sparing them another day, though the skies remained overcast.

More storms were rolling in the distance when Jim rode ahead to the Fort, announcing himself at the gate before he rode through the large doors and into the court-yard. He was surprised to see only one man on the outer wall, two men standing guard in the court-yard, and a young private sitting outside the command headquarters, nearly asleep.

Hitching his horse, Jim stepped down and scanned the fort. It was like a ghost town, with a skeleton crew and nothing but the wind stirring.

Stepping under the awning of the headquarters building Jim stood in front of the blue coated private, waiting as the young man sluggishly looked him over.

"Who're you?" The question came out slow and weak.

Jim thought about answering, and also thought about asking a few questions of his own, but found he was reluctant to know the truth now.

He stepped into the command building and removed his hat. The front room was deserted and as he checked each of the four offices in the building, he found they too were empty. Whatever the private thought he was guarding, was gone.

"Where's your commanding, Officer?" Jim asked as he stepped back out under the awning.

The Private blinked, then threw a thumb over his shoulder, and for a frustrating moment Jim thought the young man was referring to the building.

"Out back. Where he always is." The kid clarified.

Jim walked away without another word, rounding the command building and coming to a halt, his feet kicking up a small cloud of dust that drifted up and away. Behind the command building were three grave markers made of wood, and hastily erected in front of three mounds of dirt.

The hunched body of an old man barely filling out the uniform of a Brigadier General knelt before the graves, rocking back and forth on his knees.

Swallowing hard, Jim took a moment to form in his mind the most succinct and respectful approach he could come up with, then cleared his throat and walked to the man clearly in mourning.

"General Kekule?"

There was no response.

"My name is James West, I'm a Secret Service Agent. My partner and I were sent here to the fort with a wagon of supplies. We were told that their delivery was urgent."

"It's too late."

The voice had come from behind Jim, the old man still unresponsive.

Jim turned to find a Captain standing, disheveled but sober just behind him.

At first West didn't know how to respond. Excuses were never useful, but he and his partner had sacrificed more than mere discomfort to deliver the cargo, and they had arrived in the allotted week's time.

The captain seemed to read the indecision on his face and he shook his head. "Too late by several weeks, Mr. West." He said, then gestured vaguely at the graves. "They died two weeks ago."

Jim waited, desperately wanting to ask who they were, what happened, and why two weeks had passed without anyone at the Fort informing the powers that be, that the cargo was no longer necessary.

As he watched the fort gate opening distantly over the captain's shoulder he decided to head Arte off at the pass, as it were, and started to walk swiftly past the struggling officer.

Before he moved out of ear shot the man said, "Mr. West. My apologies. I can offer you an explanation but please...please don't leave those crates here."

Jim paused, watching Arte, who had since spotted him and slowed the wagon. From there he could see Gordon's face registering the same surprise and concern that Jim must have shown when he first rode into the fort.

"I'll get my partner, and meet you in command headquarters." Jim said.

"Meet me on the porch..." The captain replied, not a breath later, his voice silently begging.

* * *

"A year ago I married General Kekule's daughter, Melody. We had the wedding here. We were married by her father in his office, then held the grandest party this fort has ever seen right here in the courtyard. She was glowing..." The Captain paused, his elbows resting on his knees, staring out at the barren yard of dirt and few weeds, as if he were watching the party happen again.

"Her parents had named her well. Melody was like music. Beautiful, cheerful, heartwarming and powerful in her own genteel way. We were never happier than the day she declared she was with child. Seven months later we had a baby girl.

"On our wedding day, Melody had nothing but a plain gingham dress to wear. She talked...dreaming talk, about the beautiful dress she'd wanted to wear for her wedding day. She'd clipped a picture of it out of a catalogue that had come all the way from France. $400 for the dress, and to get it shipped from France to here. A Captain doesn't have that kind of money. And she wasn't askin' for me to get it for her...but I wanted to. She deserved to wear somethin' that pretty and I could see her in it every time she took out that clipping.

"She kept sayin', 'Someday...' One night I decided someday was gonna come a whole lot sooner. I had a talk with the General, and I showed him the clipping. To my surprise he pulled out a few clippings of his own that he'd been saving.

"A rocking chair that he wanted to get for his wife, and a fine Oak cradle he wanted for his grandbaby. Expensive..."

The captain swallowed and shook his head, and tears spilled down his face, but he continued to stare into the yard. "It took all his savings and mine. A foolish, stupid expense but how happy would they be? The women we loved. To have just one nice thing in their lives. The army would pay for our food and housing, and we could scrape by, we decided. We sent away for them fancy things, the day Melody told me I was to be a father.

"One month ago a traveling drummer brought cholera infested water into the fort. He'd used it to make his cure-all tincture, not knowing it was poisoned. We didn't have enough money to spare on frivolous things, but I couldn't tell Melody that or spoil the surprise. She wanted me to buy that stupid tincture...the baby was colicky she said, and she thought it would help. I told her I'd find something else for the baby and thought nothin' more of it.

"I didn't realize Melody had money of her own. She'd taken in the washing of some of the soldiers in the fort, and did some sewing for them from time to time before we were married. They paid her for it and she used that money to buy that tincture. She drank it. Gave it to the baby. Gave it to her mother. They got sick. And died."

The captain grew silent, and Arte and Jim sat with him in the same silence, staring as he did at the empty yard, conjuring the happy wedding day in their minds, and ignoring the haunting specter of the drummer, and the fateful purchase, trying to intrude on the borrowed memory.

"Plenty of the other men bought the tincture too. We didn't find out it was poisoned until it was too late to stop them." The captain raised his arm to sweep it in a slow arch, taking in the fort as a whole. It was the cholera that had wiped out the fort, reducing its staff to next to nothing, the gesture said. "You...gentlemen brought those things here on good faith, and I sure appreciate it. I do. But I'd appreciate it all the more if you'd take 'em back with ya."

A beat later the captain stood abruptly, his piece said, then walked back behind the command headquarters, rejoining his father-in-law.

* * *

Jim and Arte left the fort an hour later. Without a word, both tied their horses to the tail gate and climbed onto the driver's seat, Jim driving the horses, as Arte leaned back. After about an hour of travel Arte looked over his shoulder at the unbroken sheet of white canvas, like a shroud over the mysterious packages that had been presents; that should have been bringing joy, surprise and delight to the faces of loved ones. Instead now they were like miniature coffins, bearing only ill will and foul memories.

"How do you feel about playing Santa?" Arte asked finally, looking to his partner.

James West's grim profile changed slowly, hollow eyes brightening a little, as he settled into the idea. After a few minutes there was a determined slant to his lips and he nodded, not taking his eyes off the road.

A mile later he said, "Alright, Mrs. Clause, who's first on the list."

Arte caught the mischievous twinkle, and smirked back before he considered the packages they were carrying and said. "I think we'll find our first two candidates in Heartswell, Santa."

* * *

They arrived late that evening, but neither man was tired enough to consider sleeping. Doctor Kilbright's lights were still lit and after Arte did some exuberant pounding the weary doctor came to the door, hissing loudly that she had a patient trying to rest, and what was the all-fired emergency.

She calmed a little when she recognized the Secret Service Agents at the door, looking them both over for further injuries before she demanded to know why they were going about pounding on doors so late at night.

Both men looked at each other, knowing there was no quick explanation.

Finally Arte took a breath. "Jackie...my partner will readily tell you that I'm not a repeat customer when it comes to doctors. You're one of the first whose company I have actually enjoyed. I apologize for the late hour, and for upsetting your patient-"

"She's not upset, she's just asleep and needs to remain that way. She's just given birth not an hour ago."

Inexplicably James watched his partner's face brighten, then watched as Arte tried to control the smile. The reaction confused Jackie as well, but her lips were already reacting to it, curving upward even as she tilted her head, puzzled.

"It would take a good deal of time to explain..." Arte prompted and Jackie finally relinquished, sighing.

"Alright, but only if you're quiet."

Together the two men entered the parlor and Arte quietly started to tell how he and Jim had come to be in Heartswell, what they found at Fort Columbus, and why they had returned.

"So these gifts...you're just, giving them away?"

"Ma'am, I think what my partner is trying to do is see that they are received in the spirit that they were first intended." Jim ventured. "The dead can't appreciate them now but-"

"Yes...I see what you mean. These gifts...who were you meaning to give them to?" Jackie asked, looking first to West, then Gordon.

"One of them to you..." Arte said, shocked to feel himself growing red a second later. "And if your new mother in the other room there is Dave's wife, of-"

"Dave's Dry Goods- David Copper, yes." Jackie smiled.

"Then another gift is for her."

The following morning James West, Artemus Gordon, David Copper and his wife Juliana, and Dr. Jackie Kilbright had a little bit of Christmas. It had taken some searching for Jim and Arte to tell the difference between the crate holding the rocking chair and the crate holding the cradle, but they figured it out, then carried the cradle and the crate from France, into the doctor's home.

The cradle was presented first and the looks of awe on the faces of the couple, standing and holding their healthy new-born, were precisely what Arte thought Melody's reaction would have been had she been alive to see the cradle her father bought for her.

Jackie's face froze when she first laid eyes on the silvery blue, silk dress wrapped carefully in the crate from France. Pearl buttons, silk laces and ties, and a delicate pattern embroidered throughout the bodice and down the back of the dress set the gown apart from anything she, or any of the rest of them, had ever before seen.

As if it had been made for her, when Jackie tried the gown on, it fit perfectly. The change from her widow's black to the bright blueish silver was astounding.

"I...I don't know where I could possibly have reason to wear this..." Jackie stuttered.

"Hopefully, someday I'll have the opportunity to show you." Arte told her, taking her hand gently in his and kissing her knuckles.

They left, reluctantly, that afternoon to make their final delivery the following morning.

When they arrived at the old doctor's house they found him, once more, seated on his porch. Waving to the two Secret Service Agents, the old man stood creakily and waited for them to carry the mysterious box under the awning.

"How's that eye comin' along, son?" Was the old man's first question and Jim let the old man look over his work before the doctor turned his attention to the crate. His daughter joined them a moment later and together Jim and Arte once more explained their trip, and the idea that had brought them back.

"So what's in the box?" The girl asked, her eyes still damp from the woeful story. Both men smiled and cracked the lid pulling out the two pieces of the rocking chair and assembling them silently.

When they left the old man was still sitting on his porch, rocking back and forth in the new chair.

* * *

Four days later Jim and Arte were back aboard The Wanderer. They had already started a flurry of telegraph correspondences back and forth between Washington, reporting the conditions of the Fort, and that the combination of the illness and the destructive weather, had been the cause for the lack of communication until that time. There would, of course, be a full report expected and Arte had been seated at his desk for several hours drafting said report.

Jim too was supposed to have been writing but he found himself constantly distracted by some other task. Only in the last ten minutes had he been able to force himself to sit, and still he couldn't bring himself to pen to paper.

"Hey, Arte."

"Yeah, Jim."

"Before we left the fort, you said you had a special delivery to make..."

His partner was silent for a moment, before he gave an odd sigh and answered, "Yeah?"

"What did you deliver?"

"A present...to a little girl who deserved a good deal more." Arte said quietly.

* * *

At Fort Columbus, in Kansas Territory, before General Kekule, Captain Terrence and the rest of the surviving soldiers left, there was a brief memorial service. Those that had been hastily buried had not yet been formally laid to rest and words were spoken over the graves, a prayer said, and final goodbyes bid.

Before he left the grave of his wife and daughter, Captain William Terrence replaced the gift that had mysteriously appeared weeks ago. A rag doll, exactly like the one Melody had wanted to buy for their child from the drummer. This he laid carefully at the grave then turned and departed, the doll's quiet smile the last Terrence expected to see again inside the fort walls.

THE END


End file.
